You say the ridge like a prayer that is actually a list.

Lynford, once you are on the east bank, climbs. Thatcham is a morning: farm roofs, Mab’s barn if weather turns, a church tower that winks. Crow’s Oak is an oak with a cross cut in, a well, a temptation of marsh to the north that looks soft and kind. Holmewell is the basin, the badge, the day.

Landmarks beat pictures. Aelric smiles with one side of his mouth.

The low road along the river-meadow is green, obvious, and in flood years a liar. Someone will suggest it. Someone always does.

You recite: tower at Thatcham, oak with a cut cross, Holmewell tower, basin. Aelric adds walking times in his clerk voice. The low meadow shines as if it were a gift. Gifts from rivers in spring are often wet.